Patricia Brent, Spinster Part 44

When Patricia arrived at Galvin House, she was conscious of the world having changed since the morning. All her gloom had been dispelled, the drawn look had pa.s.sed from her face, and she felt that a heavy weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE AIR RAID

"Miss Brent, please get up. There's an air raid."

Mechanically Patricia sat up in bed and listened. Outside a police-whistle was droning its raucous warning; within there was the sound of frightened whispers and the noise of the opening and shutting of doors. Suddenly there was a shriek, followed by a low murmur of several voices. The sound of the police-whistle continued, gradually dying away in the distance, and the noises within the house ceased.

Patricia strained her ears to catch the first sound of the defensive guns. She had no intention of getting up for a false alarm. For some minutes there was silence, then came a slight murmur, half sob, half sigh, as if London were breathing heavily in her sleep, another followed, then half a dozen in quick succession growing louder with every report. Suddenly came the scream of a "whiz-bang" and the thunder of a large gun. Soon the orchestra was in full swing.

Still Patricia listened. She was fascinated. Why did guns sound exactly as if large plank were being dropped? Why did the report seem as if something were bouncing? Suddenly a terrific report, a sound as if a giant plank had been dropped and had "bounced." A neighbouring gun had given tongue, another followed.

She jumped out of bed and proceeded to pull on her stockings. There was a gentle tapping at her door, not the peremptory summons that had awakened her and which, by the voice that had accompanied it, she recognised as that of Mrs. Craske-Morton.

"What is it?" she called out.

"It's me, mees." Patricia could scarcely recognise in the terrified accents the voice of Gustave. "It's a raid. Oh! mees, please come down."

"All right, Gustave. I shall be down in a minute," replied Patricia, and she heard a flurry of retreating footsteps. Gustave was descending to safety. There was about him nothing of the Roman sentry.

Patricia proceeded with her toilette, hastened, in spite of herself, by a tremendous crash which she recognised as a bomb.

At Galvin House "Raid Instructions" had been posted in each room.

Guests were instructed to hasten with all possible speed downstairs to the bas.e.m.e.nt-kitchen, where tea and coffee would be served and, if necessary, bandages and first-aid applied. Miss Sikk.u.m had made a superficial study of Red Cross work from a s.h.i.+lling manual but as, according to her own confession, she fainted at the sight of blood, no very great reliance was placed in her ministrations.

As Patricia entered the kitchen her first inclination was to laugh at the amazing variety, not only of toilettes, but of expressions that met her eyes. Self-confident in the knowledge that she was fully dressed, she looked about her with interest.

"Oh, here you are, Miss Brent!" exclaimed Mrs. Craske-Morton, who was busily engaged in preparing the tea and coffee of the "Raid Instructions." "Gustave would insist on going up to call you a second time. We were----" Mrs. Craske-Morton broke off her sentence and dashed for the gas-stove, where the milk was boiling over.

"Oh, mees!" Patricia turned to Gustave. She bit her lip fiercely to restrain the laugh that bubbled up at the sight of the major-domo of Galvin House.

Above a pair of black trousers, tucked in the tops of unlaced boots, and from which the braces flapped aimlessly, was visible the upper part of a red flannel night-s.h.i.+rt. The remainder was bestowed beneath the upper part of the trousers, giving to his figure a curiously k.n.o.bbly appearance. His face was leaden-coloured and his upstanding hair more erect than ever, whilst in his eyes was Fear.

He was trembling in every limb, and his jaw shook as he uttered his expression of relief at the sight of Patricia. She smiled at him, then suddenly remembering that, in spite of his terror, he had voluntarily gone up to the top of the house to call her, she felt something strangely uncomfortable at the back of her throat.

"Come along, Gustave!" she cried brightly. "Let us help get the tea.

I'm so thirsty."

From that moment Gustave appeared to take himself in hand, and save for a violent start, at the more vigorous reports, seemed to have overcome his terror.

As Patricia proceeded to a.s.sist Mrs. Craske-Morton, a veritable heroine in a pink flannel wrapper, she took stock of her fellows. Miss w.a.n.gle was engaged in prayer and tears, her wig was awry, her face drawn and yellow and her clothes the garb of advanced maidenhood. On her feet were bed-socks, half thrust into felt slippers. From beneath a black quilted dressing-gown peeped with virtuous pride the longcloth of a nightdress of Victorian severity.

Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe was in curl-papers and a faded blue kimono that allowed no suggestion to escape of the form beneath. Miss Sikk.u.m had seized a grey raincoat, above which a forest of curl papers looked strangely out of place. Her fingers moved restlessly. The two top b.u.t.tons of the raincoat were missing, displaying a wealth of blue ribbon and openwork that none had suspected in her. The lateness at which the ribbon and openwork began gave an interesting demonstration in feminine bone structure.

Mr. Sefton was splendid in a purple dressing-gown with orange cord and ta.s.sels, and red and white striped pyjamas beneath. Mr. Sefton had chosen his raid-costume with elaborate care; but the suddenness of the alarm had not allowed of the arrangement of his hair, most of which hung down behind in a sandy cascade. His manner was the forced heroic.

He was smoking a cigarette with a too obvious nonchalance to deceive.

The heroes of Mr. Sefton's imagination always lit cigarettes when facing death. They were of the type that seizes a revolver when the s.h.i.+p is sinking and, with one foot placed negligently upon the capstan (Mr. Sefton had not the most remote idea of what a capstan was like) shouted, "Women and children first."

He walked about the kitchen with what he meant to be a smile upon his pale lips. The cigarette he found a nuisance. If he held it between his lips the smoke got in his eyes and made them stream with water; if, on the other hand, he held it between his fingers, it emphasized the shaking of his hand. He compromised by letting it go out between his lips, arguing that the effect was the same.

Mr. Bolton had donned his fez and velvet smoking-jacket above creased white pyjama trousers that refused to meet the tops of his felt slippers. Mr. Bolton continued to make "jokes," for the same reason that Mr. Sefton smoked a cigarette.

Mr. Cordal was negative in a big ulster with a hem of nights.h.i.+rt beneath, leaving about eight inches of fleshless s.h.i.+n before his carpet slippers with the fur-tops were reached. He sat gazing with unseeing eyes at the cook huddled up opposite, moaning as she held her heart with a fat, dirty hand.

Mrs. Barnes, the victim of indecision, had leapt straight out of bed, gathered her clothes in her arms and had flown to safety. She walked about the kitchen aimlessly, dropping and retrieving various garments, which she stuffed back again into the bundle she carried under her arm.

Mrs. Craske-Morton was practical and courageous. Her one thought was to prepare the promised refreshments. Her staff, with the exception of Gustave, was useless, and she was grateful to Patricia for her a.s.sistance.

Outside pandemonium was raging, the noise of the barrage was diabolical, the "bouncing" of the heavy guns, the screams of the "whiz-bangs," the cackle of machine-guns from aeroplanes overhead; all seemed to tell of death and chaos.

Suddenly the puny sound of guns was drowned in one gigantic uproar.

For a moment the place was plunged in darkness, then the electric light shuddered into being again. The gla.s.s flew from the windows, the house rocked as if uncertain whether or no it should collapse. Miss w.a.n.gle slipped on to her knees, her wig slipped on to her left ear.

"Oh, my G.o.d!" screamed the cook, as if to ensure exclusive rights to the Deity's attention.

Jenny, the housemaid, entirely unconscious that her nightdress was her sole garment, threw herself flat on her face. Mrs. Craske-Morton, who was pouring out tea, let the teapot slip from her hand, smas.h.i.+ng the cup and pouring the contents on to the table. Gustave's knees refused their office and he sank down, grasping with both hands the edge of the table. Mrs. Barnes dropped her clothes without troubling to retrieve them.

Suddenly there was a terrifying scream outside, then a motor-car drew up and the sound of men's voices was heard.

Still the guns thundered. Patricia felt herself trembling. For a moment a rush of blood seemed to suffocate her, then she found herself gazing at Miss w.a.n.gle, wondering whether she were praying to G.o.d or to the bishop. She laughed in a voice unrecognisable to herself. She looked about the kitchen. Mr. Sefton had sunk down upon a chair, the cigarette still attached to his bloodless lower lip, his arms hanging limply down beside him. Mr. Cordal was looking about him as if dazed, whilst Mr. Bolton was gazing at the gla.s.sless window-frames, as if expecting some apparition to appear.

"It's a bomb next door," gasped Mrs. Craske-Morton, then remembering her responsibilities, she caught Patricia's eye. There was appeal in her glance.

"Come along, Gustave," cried Patricia in a voice that she still found it difficult to recognise as her own.

Gustave, still on his knees, looked round and up at her with the eyes of a dumb animal that knows it is about to be tortured.

"Gustave, get up and help with the tea," said Patricia.

A look of wonder crept into Gustave's eyes at the unaccustomed tone of Patricia's voice. Slowly he dragged himself up, as if testing the capacity of each knee to support the weight of his body.

"There's brandy there," said Mrs. Craske-Morton, pointing to a spirit-case she had brought down with her. "Here's the key."

Patricia took the key from her trembling hand, noting that her own was shaking violently.

"Mrs. Morton," she whispered, "you are splendid."

Mrs. Morton smiled wanly, and Patricia felt that in that moment she had got to know the woman beneath the boarding-house keeper.

"Shall we put it in their tea?" enquired Patricia, holding the decanter of brandy.

Mrs. Craske-Morton nodded.

"Now, Gustave!" cried Patricia, "make everybody drink tea."